From Miss to Ma’am: My Third Life Crisis

So for the last three five years I’ve been going through a third life crisis. It’s like a mid life crisis but about 15 years earlier in life. For those of you who aren’t familiar it’s when you hit your late 20’s/early 30’s and realize a few things.

A) I should no longer wear low-rise jeans. Like…ever. Forever 21 is not made for me. Spanx are made for me.

B) I’d like to slap the 21-year-old version of myself that graduated college and thought I’d be immediately successful, rich and married. For the record, I did watch too much Sex and the City in college. I’m now aware that my life is not one vulgar sex scene narrated by a less fabulous version of Samantha.

C) I am now entering the botox induced coma of wondering if you should be trying to party on a Wednesday night or getting a frequent shopper card at Janie and Jack. I’m stuck in the in between of not being ready for Little League and ballet lessons but also not wanting to be an irresponsible drunken mess. Club going up…on a Tuesday. Nope. Netflix going up…nevermind.

Here’s what I’ve come to realize. I no longer look like my 22-year-old self. Gone are the days where I could pull off anything stretch and Bermuda shorts are replacing cutoffs. I can no longer drink all night without sleeping all day the next day. Let’s be honest…the next three days. WTF? What happened to the awesome version of me and why didn’t I realize until just now that I’ve become a walking J Crew ad? Personally I blame Beyonce for making me think I was on that level of cool still. Two incidents as of late really brought me back to reality that I am now a Ma’am and not a Miss.

Incident #1 – I was standing in line at Safeway buying two bottles of wine and cookies (yes…I was having that kind of day. If I could have gotten away with wearing my bathrobe and Uggs you better believe I would have) when I go to hand the girl at the checkout my ID. She promptly waves me off and says “Don’t worry…you’re good.” Ouch. Thanks for the verbal bitch slap. You couldn’t just take the ID pretend to look at it and laugh behind my back afterward? No. Apparently she felt the need to un-ID me. That one hurt.

Incident #2 – At a neighbor’s BBQ I found myself getting murdered by an 8-year-old at Wii tennis. Being annihilated by a girl with no front teeth is a pretty serious deal in its own right but in the middle of her turn she asks me “how old are you?” I tell her 31. Her response “Wow you don’t look THAT old. Why aren’t you married?” I wanted to reply that not only would she end up with crows feet one day but she’ll also have bunions from walking in heels. I think the insults life lessons would have been lost on her.

Am I going crazy? Has the botox that I’m not so secretly receiving addled my brain? Am I a reverse Benjamin Button aging at an alarming rate? Here’s some advice for my fellow ladies formerly known as “Miss”. You will be 24 forever. End of story. Non-negotiable. Keep using terms like “On Fleek”. It’s SO not weird. Don’t date anyone who is young enough for you to have babysat them in high school. They think it’s cool when they don’t get ID’ed because they’re with you. You feel like team mom and unless you have orange slices and a Capri Sun in your purse it will not feel cool to you. Wear that tube top on a Tuesday night. No shame girl. No shame. You do you. And last, if this advice still isn’t enough for you…there’s a weekly meeting on Tuesday’s at 5pm. We’ll meet in front of Janie and Jack. I’ll bring the Capri Suns. You bring the orange slices. Deal? Deal.